


I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun

by Kacka



Series: Kacka Does a Thing [21]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, idk i tried, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 16:59:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11741328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: Bellamy never expected to be made a Lord's heir, but Marcus somehow took a liking to him. Now he's in charge of the manor. It's taking some getting used to, not least of all because his new wife isn't all that pleased with the marriage.Clarke's father dying left her and her mother nearly destitute. Marrying her off to Lord Marcus's newly-minted protégée seems like a wonderful plan to Abby, but Clarke isn't quite sold.





	I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is not entirely true to how regency works, but I did (minimal) Wikipedia-ing about it and it seemed too complicated so as always, grain of salt. & for @hedaoftheskaikru on tumblr who asked for p&p AU/general regency AU-- thanks for playing, I hope you like it!

Bellamy isn't sure how he ended up married to the daughter of a Lord-- or more accurately, how the daughter of a Lord ended up married to _him_. He's had some time (a few months, at most) to adjust to the fact that Lord Marcus has taken a special interest in passing on his title to Bellamy. He's had less time (not even a day, to be exact) to accept the fact that he has a new wife, and that the Lady in question is displeased with the arrangement.

He can't blame her much. Surely she had in mind marrying someone with the right kind of manners, the right kind of connections, the right kind of parentage. But his actual parentage-- mother dead and father unknown-- is what put him in this position, so perhaps he had the right kind after all.

Lady Clarke is everything he expected she would be: lovely and proper, her spine ramrod-straight, her chin high enough he feels like she's looking down on him, no matter how much shorter she may be.

She also has a sharp glint in her eye and shoulders drawn back the way he's seen his fellow soldiers posture themselves, readying for a fight. These, he didn't expect. He finds he doesn't quite know what to make of them.

"Are you-- tired?" He ventures at last. The carriage ride from the chapel-- their _wedding_ is much longer than he remembers it being, possibly due to the tense silence between them.

"No."

"Hungry? Thirsty?" She simply looks at him and Bellamy itches to tug his collar loose. Do wives count as being in public? He has no idea what sort of things she would find indecent. Probably he's already committed several atrocities without even knowing it.

He clears his throat. "I think someone is preparing a meal for us, but I didn't know what you preferred to eat for your wedding dinner."

"Anything will do," she says, casting her eyes away from him. He colors, wondering if her disdain for him is so great she wouldn't even try to correct his missteps.

Bellamy wishes he knew what he did to win Lord Marcus over, what stories his captains told that endeared Bellamy to a man of his stature. He did well enough charming the girls he fancied as a young man, did even better charming anyone and everyone in town into offering him any work he could get, though his motivation-- keeping himself and his sister fed-- lent itself to the task.

He has no idea where to begin winning over this Lady before him. His wife.

"I didn't know much of what you preferred at all," he continues. "We've readied a suite for you, the one with the best views of the gardens, but if you like another better, you can, of course, choose any of them."

She studies him closely. "Even yours?"

This stumps him; he wouldn't expect her to have such a strong preference she would ask him to move his own things to another room, though he'd certainly be willing.

"You can have mine if you like," he decides. "I'm not sure you wouldlike it much. I only chose it because it's closest to the library, but if you keep the windows open too long into the afternoon some odor from the stables will drift in."

(He doesn't mention that the smell doesn't bother him, even reminds him of home sometimes. Octavia always liked horses, and usually tagged along if he had work tending to someone else's stables, sitting on hay bales and swinging her feet. His wife might not look upon those memories as kindly as he does, so he keeps them to himself.)

Lady Clarke frowns at him. "I meant-- You prepared a separate suite for me, rather than a place for us both. You don't want me in your bed?"

"Do you want to be in my bed?" He asks, genuinely surprised. "I don't know what's expected of me as your husband. I know there are-- duties-- married Lords and Ladies have to consider, but I only just met you yesterday." He tries a smile, which she doesn't return but seems to unwind a bit at. "Where I come from, marriage duties aren't so dutiful as they are enjoyable. I myself would prefer time to get used to the state of things before we even consider sharing a bed."

Lady Clarke regards him with that icy, shrewd gaze for another moment, then deflates and looks away. He feels strangely as if he's the one who lost even though she admitted defeat. He thinks she might feel better if she fought with him.

For a moment there's nothing but the sound of the carriage wheels rattling and the horse's hooves clopping against the packed dirt, but then she mumbles under her breath, "I would much rather be near the books than the gardens," and it almost makes him laugh.

Almost.

"We have that in common."

She hums politely but doesn't give any other answer. Bellamy is left to wonder why he's so disappointed.

* * *

Clarke had not been naive enough to think the worst part would be the gaping hole in her heart that her father used to fill. Certainly they'd been close. Lord Jacob Griffin had been much warmer than his wife, less concerned with propriety. He'd turned a blind eye when Clarke had climbed trees and hidden from governesses as a girl, and done the same when she'd slipped away from her mother's dull social engagements as a young lady.

He'd not only indulged his wife's insistence that Clarke receive the finest education they could afford, but agreed with her. She remembers many nights when he would ask her to explain to him the finer points of her studies, not only (as Clarke had thought) because of his natural curiosity, but to test her. To challenge her.

She owes a great deal of her spirit and her learning to her father, and she has missed him sorely every day since his passing.

But no matter how he treated Clarke-- as an equal, as a _person_ \-- he could not really pretend she was a son, and so upon his passing, Clarke and her mother were prevented from inheriting any of his estate and left nearly destitute.

They would have been on the streets, or imposing upon the graciousness of distant family, if not for Lord Marcus's friendship with her mother. He'd recently taken a protégée, an ex-officer with a lowly upbringing, a promising future, and most importantly, no marital attachments.

Had they more time, more options, or more dowry, Lady Abigail Griffin might have declined the generous offer.

Unfortunately, they have none of these, and so Clarke was married off to a man she knows hardly anything of and Lady Abigail has retired with Lord Marcus to his estate in the countryside to grieve the loss of her husband away from the prying eyes of society.

"Marcus says he's a good man," her mother had told her, pinning Clarke's curls with deft fingers. "With your help, he may even learn to navigate the peerage. You could do quite well for yourselves."

"And I'm sure Thelonius will care for the estate. It's no comfort when I feel as if I'm nothing more than another piece of property to be bought and sold."

"Such dramatics," her mother sighed, her hands resting briefly on Clarke's shoulders before dropping to her side. "Every woman passes through this stage in life. Once you get used to it, I'm sure it will not seem so bleak."

And maybe that's true, but when her father was alive, Clarke had tasted what it was like to be treated as a person and not a possession. To have that taken away from her now is harder than she expected, especially as her husband sits across from her in the carriage, looking as if he can hardly wait to take his leave of her.

Even the marriage bed-- the aspect she'd been dreading most-- he wants no part in.

Feeling spurned, unwanted, and weary, she excuses herself before he can seize the opportunity to shut her away, out of sight and out of mind. It may be petty, but it makes her feel as if she's had a voice at last.

_Tomorrow,_  she thinks. Tomorrow she will lay claim to her own life. Tomorrow, she will show him whom he married.

* * *

While his new wife bypasses her evening meal in favor of her suite, seemingly preferring an empty set of rooms to his company, Bellamy goes to the kitchen, where his staff are undoubtedly gossiping.

He doubts they'll stop just because he's among them, but at least someone will be giving him their thoughts on this new, significant event in his life.

Indeed, his hostler is running his mouth off about the Lady, gushing about her beauty. He's not wrong, Bellamy's new wife is beautiful, but Jasper falls in love as easily and often as other people enjoy a good night's sleep. It's no wonder the others are listening with expressions of open skepticism.

"Bellamy," Nathan says, relieved when he spots his friend. They came up in the Navy together, forging a fast and lasting friendship. It was the kind of connection that made his mother happy, befriending the son of an officer, but all that mattered to Bellamy was having someone without delusions of grandeur he could trade knowing glances with.

Nathan always said he would get Bellamy a good position when they were released from duty. But then Lord Marcus had taken him under his wing, and he'd been the one to offer Nathan a position. He's not sure what exactly that position's title is, or what all it entails, but he needed someone who knew about these affairs to help him run his manor so he could direct his attentions to the needs of his tenants in the village. Nathan was more suited than the job than anyone else he knew.

Bellamy trusts him, and so far, if Nathan is cheating him out of his estate or income or anything else, he's doing it while providing invaluable support, guidance, and a sense of normalcy. Bellamy thinks he's earned it.

"Am I paying you all to stand around in my kitchen?" Bellamy grumbles, wedging his way between Monty and Raven and reaching for the bread on the table. Gina swats at his hand before he can get there.

"This is ours. We fixed your feast. It's sitting on your otherwise empty table."

He scowls at her but relents. "You can eat your fill. I'll bring a plate to my study."

"As usual," Monty snorts. "We were just wondering whether you took your meal elsewhere, seeing as your bride overlooked dinner completely."

"No," he admits. "I'll fix her one too."

"That's our job," Gina reminds him, standing and brushing flour from her hands. "Besides, you gave her her own quarters. If she wants privacy, it might be better that one of us bring it to her."

"Plus, she's a Lady. She's probably used to having servants wait on her," Raven points out, smirking at him. It makes him feel better. Just because he's a Lord now doesn't mean his friends will treat him differently. "Maybe she could teach you her secrets."

"I'm perfectly capable of waiting on myself," he mutters without any real heat behind it. "But if one of you would be so kind--"

"One hot meal for one hot wife, coming right up," Raven says, standing, and Bellamy glares at her. But Nathan and the rest of them are laughing, and that lifts his spirits too.

"How does she seem?" Nathan asks him quietly as the others move onto other topics.

Bellamy sighs and finally lets himself loosen his collar, tossing his ascot in Monty's face when he laughs at Bellamy's pained expression. "She seems unhappy, though I haven't yet determined whether it's with the match or her general disposition."

"If she's dissatisfied with the match, she has poor taste," Nathan mutters. Bellamy smiles, finally feeling the weight of the day lifting from his shoulders.

"I had no idea you were so fond of me," he teases, hooking his arm around his friend's shoulders until Nathan pushes him off.

"I take it back. She could hardly do worse."

"That's more like it."

* * *

Clarke has lost herself staring out at the-- admittedly, lovely-- gardens when there comes a knock on her door. It opens promptly, revealing a young woman with dark curls and a plate of food that causes Clarke's stomach to make an indelicate noise.

"My Lady," she says, bobbing cheerfully. "I brought your dinner."

"Thank you." Clarke pauses. "Will you stay? Or come back in a while, if you have other things to tend to. I fear I will not be able to unlace myself from this dress."

"It's lovely," she offers, then smiles. "I should have thought of it myself. The first thing Bellamy did, after reprimanding us for taking an interest in our new Lady, was to divest himself of his ascot. I'm not surprised he forgot a woman's wardrobe is far less comfortable and far more difficult to escape."

Clarke blinks at her food, wishing ladies were permitted to take larger bites so that she might have more time to mull over this picture of her new husband. Socializing with his servants, letting them call him by his Christian name, undressing in front of them. Each an obvious product of his undesirable origins, each a stinging reminder of her family's desperation.

She hums in acknowledgment, lost in her own thoughts. When she finishes with her meal, the young woman begins freeing Clarke from her dress.

"What's your name?" She wonders.

"I'm Gina." She leans forward to meet Clarke's eye, that friendly expression back on her face. "I suppose we should be acquainted before you're down to your undergarments."

Clarke laughs once, surprised she even has it in her after the events of the recent weeks. Gina returns to her work, a pleased smile on her face.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," she says softly.

"Likewise, my Lady."

As she works, Gina asks Clarke about her home and family, and by the time Clarke is tucked into her bed-- all alone-- she feels as if there might be someone in this manor she can grow fond of.

* * *

Bellamy has never quite been able to shake the habit of waking early and often accompanies Monty as he collects eggs from the hens and lets the cows out into pasture for the morning.

He fully intends to freshen up before he meets Lady Clarke but they run into each other-- almost literally-- in the hall before he can get a chance.

She wrinkles her nose and any good mood he'd gained from the fresh air and the honest work (as he calls it in jest, to make Nathan scowl more) evaporates like morning dew.

"Lord Blake," she says, curtsying.

"Please," he waves her curtsy away. "It's Bellamy. I doubt husbands and wives are expected to greet each other in such a manner in private. And even if they are, I have no need of it in my household." He pauses. "Our household, I suppose. If you would prefer I use any formalities, I've been told I'm a quick learner."

"Bellamy," she says, testing it out, her voice giving nothing away. "You must have slept with the windows open all night."

"What do--" He pauses, reddens when he remembers telling her about the odors that drift in from the stables. The stables where he's been all morning. He wonders suddenly if mentioning such indelicate things to the Lady gave her offense.

"Oh. No. A product of my morning chores, I'm afraid." She raises her eyebrows, disdain written across her features, and he finds himself reddening. "A habit those in my employ have not yet been able to break me of."

"And do you often let those whom you employ dictate your conduct?"

He bristles. "I welcome any guidance in this new world I've been thrust into. They know more than I, why should I not heed their advice?"

"A good question," she shoots back. "If their advice is so valuable, why _do_ you not heed it?"

"Receiving a frivolous title does not inherently change my character or value," he snaps. "I am not above dirtying my hands simply because I can afford not to."

Her eyes flash and triumph strikes a chord within him. Finally, he's gotten past her cool exterior.

"Perhaps I will take my breakfast in my chambers, as I did my supper. If you lack for company, I'm sure there are a number of _frivolous_ objects in this manor that will be as passive and docile as the wife I'm sure you wanted."

"The breakfast table is yours for the taking," he grits out, storming past her. "If you have need of me, I'll be in the stables where you seem to think I belong."

He's almost out of sight when she calls after him, "I won't have need of you."

And while he's certain that's true, the statement stings nonetheless.

* * *

"No Bellamy?"

Clarke studies the newcomer impassively. She's beautiful, even dressed in men's clothing, and though her gait is uneven she gives no impression of anything but strength.

"Did the whole manor not hear us?"

"No, we did." The woman pulls out the seat intended for Clarke's husband and carries it ungracefully to the wall, where she climbs up on it in order to reach a mounted gas lamp. Clarke watches with interest as she begins disassembling the contraption with sure movements. "I had hoped Miller would have talked him around by now, but Bellamy is more stubborn than a schoolboy on Sunday when he cares to be."

"As often as if every day is Sunday, I'm sure." Clarke can't help the bitterness in her tone, nor can she muster any guilt when a sharp look gets thrown her way.

"A stubborn, good man for a husband is far from the worst possible outcome."

Clarke considers this. "Have you married, Miss--"

"Reyes. Raven, if you please. And no, I've never married, but I would have if my betrothed had not had a series of women auditioning to become his mistresses."

She says this as a matter of fact, not of emotion, and Clarke works to keep her own reaction equally detached.

"I could hardly blame you for wanting a faithful partner," she says carefully. Raven snorts, the least ladylike thing she's done, and Clarke likes her immensely for it.

"Plenty of people have blamed me. Either I am at fault for offering too little or I am at fault for valuing fidelity over security." She pauses. "But Bellamy never treated me as if my decisions weren't mine to make. Instead he offered me good pay for a trade I enjoy, and that's been immensely more fulfilling than becoming Miss Collins."

"Are you recommending I put myself to work in order to solve my marital troubles?" She asks dryly. Raven smirks at her, still tinkering with the pieces in her hands.

"As someone in your employ, I would never deign to dictate your conduct," she says, placing Clarke's own words pointedly before her. "All I mean to say is that he helped me when I needed it. Perhaps that sounds familiar."

Clarke feels her lips flatten into a line. "You say that as if this marriage offers him no advantage."

Raven shakes her head and returns the repaired fixture to its place. "If you believe Bellamy cares about gaining a foothold in society, you've not learned much about him yet. All I can recommend is to give it time."

Clarke is silent as Raven finishes her work, the two women exchanging nods before she goes.

Give it time. Of all the things she could give, it isn't much to ask.

* * *

Bellamy manages to stay out of doors for most of the morning, brushing off Nathan's attempts at conciliation in favor of accompanying Lincoln to repair fences on the eastern property line. The manual labor is cathartic as well as distracting, Lincoln's presence, calming. He's mostly cooled off by the time Octavia brings lunch.

His sister is suspicious of his entire life these days, refusing to let herself grow too used to these new comforts. One of the few perks she does enjoy is the company of his groundskeeper. Bellamy has privately been helping Lincoln find and build a small cottage on a nearby piece of land for the two of them when they marry. However doubtful Octavia is about his title and the inheritance he'll one day receive, she's been twice as dubious toward his new marriage, so he's surprised to see her arrive with a smirk.

"Married for one day and already you're sleeping in the stables."

"We don't share quarters," Bellamy points out. "I'll probably sleep in my own bed."

"You know what I mean."

"I was perfectly civil and accommodating until she made it clear she was looking down her nose at us. If a night in the stables would do anyone some good, it's her."

"Perfectly civil and accommodating doesn't sound like your strength," Octavia points out. "But I suppose if the Princess wanted a castle, she should have held out for royalty."

"Gina spoke well of her," Lincoln says thoughtfully.

"If only she were wed to Gina," Bellamy sighs, wiping his brow. "Did you bring food for both of us or just for Lincoln?"

"It isn't your affections I'm trying to win."

"That's what I thought," he grumbles, ignoring the soft smile that makes its way onto Lincoln's face. "I'll take my leave of you, then."

"Good riddance."

Rather than venture anywhere he might interact with his wife again, Bellamy passes through the kitchen for some sustenance, then heads straight to his favorite room: the library. More specifically, the ornate desk near the far window, where Lord Marcus used to conduct all his business. Nathan is the one who uses it most these days and he's already there poring over a ledger when Bellamy arrives.

"Get enough fresh air?"

"That depends. Do you mean enough to clear my head or enough to make me grovel for my wife's forgiveness?"

"There isn't enough fresh air in the world for the latter," Nathan snorts. "I meant enough to make you fulfill some of your actual duties instead of imposing upon everyone else's."

Bellamy smirks. "Do you want me to grovel for you, Nathan?"

"I would enjoy that."

"Maybe later, there's work to be done. Show me what you're looking at."

Nathan takes his leave once the sun begins to set but Bellamy, who shirked his duties in the morning and has no desire to go near the dining room, remains at the desk. It comes as no surprise to him that he has taken well to this sort of work. He did well enough with his schooling, sincerely enjoyed the reading and writing and history lessons. Even if he has no talent for figures, Raven can usually help him sort them out.

He doesn't, however, require her to work the long hours that he does, nor does he think she would take well to his interrupting her evening, so despite the fact that he works until he has to light candles to see his paper, he doesn't make much headway into the things that need to get done.

It comes as a relief when he hears the heavy doors open and shut again, soft footsteps approaching. It's likely Nathan, returned to make him leave for the night. Perhaps he can get Bellamy unstuck from this problem.

"I'd reprimand you for not going home when you're sent," he says, rubbing at his tired eyes. "But I'm glad you're here because no matter which way I work these numbers I cannot figure out where I'm going wrong."

He looks up at the end of his sentence and falters when he sees that it isn't Nathan, nor Gina with his meal, but Lady Clarke. Between the deep hue of her dress and the darkness pressing in against the windows, her pale skin and golden hair seem to glow in the candlelight. The look on her face is guarded and for a brief moment he wonders if she might start raising her voice again.

He wouldn't blame her, but after such a long, tiring day, he doesn't think he has it in him to go another round.

"Apologies, my lady. I assumed you were-- someone else."

"I suspected. Sending me home would be a fruitless task when I have no home to return to," she replies, careful not to break the tentative truce he's offering. "I could-- I have no love for mathematics, but I could look the problem over if you like."

Bellamy stares at her for a moment, then clears his throat and turns work around for her to see. "Be my guest."

She remains cautious as she approaches, but any hesitance is shifted aside as soon as she gets a look at the page. It's fascinating to watch, to see the cogs and gears in her mind spinning, her gaze sharp, focused, as she considers.

"This here is where you misstep." She reaches for his pen and he lets her tug it from his fingers. Her hand moves quickly across the paper, correcting his sad attempt, and when she shows him his error it seems immediately obvious.

"I should have seen that," he groans, scratching out his stray marks so only her neat writing remains. "Thank you."

"I didn't do much."

"On the contrary, if it weren't for you I would have stayed here all night."

He makes himself meet her eyes and finds that she's already staring at him, her brow furrowed in concentration. It isn't quite the same way she looked at his sums, taking them apart and discerning what needed correcting, but it's something close.

"You work hard," she says at last. He tries not to redden when he thinks of the way he hadn't stopped off at his room to freshen up after his work with Lincoln earlier.

"I always have. I don't know how not to."

"Well." She clears her throat. "Don't let me stop you. I just came looking for something to read."

"You're in the right place." He gestures at the walls lined with overflowing shelves. "Can I help you find anything in particular?"

"I'd like to look at your collection if it won't disturb you."

"I needed disturbing," he admits, leaning back and stretching. She looks away, her cheeks pink. "Browse at your leisure. The collection is yours now too, my lady."

She moves to study some of the nearest books, running her fingertips reverently across the spines. "Is it not Lord Marcus's collection?"

"Only officially." He offers her a wry smile. "I consider myself lucky that his trunks could not hold more of these when he moved out to the country."

"Very lucky," she agrees, retrieving a book and opening it to the first few pages. She goes no further and he can't think of anything else to say, so he sets himself back to work finishing the portion he was working on. As he finishes, Lady Clarke has reached the other end of the room, near the entrance, a few different volumes in her arms.

Bellamy makes his way over to her.

"Shall I leave you the candle?"

She startles, apparently not having heard his approach, her eyes wide and face very close when she tilts it up to meet his eyes.

"No." She pauses. "No, that's alright."

"The books will still be here in the morning," he says, gently teasing.

"Yes, I'm sure that's true."

"Shall I, uh-- Would it be impolite to offer to escort you to your rooms?"

"We're married," she points out, but her face reddens again. "And I don't know my way around very well yet."

"Right. Then-- This way."

An awkward silence settles between them as they go, and part of him is glad when they make it to her rooms. This encounter has been better, certainly, than their others, yet he feels exhausted from trying to guess what she's thinking.

She pauses at her door, taking back the books he'd carried down for her. "Thank you for showing me the way."

"Thank you for saving me from endless mathematics."

She huffs, possibly a laugh but not quite. "Goodnight, Bellamy."

"Sleep well, my lady."

He's halfway down the corridor before she calls after him, "It's Clarke." He turns. "I should have said, earlier. I got-- distracted."

Bellamy laughs under his breath. Distracted is one word for it. Combative is another. Though her elevated sense of self chafed against his own pride, the actual argument might have made him like her a little bit more.

"Clarke, then," he says, feeling the weight of her gaze even across the distance. "Sleep well, Clarke."

* * *

If Clarke had thought she and her husband had found better footing the night before, she ought to have known it wouldn't last. They both show at breakfast the next morning and it ends in another bickering match. Clarke hadn't meant anything by it when she asked if the eggs they were eating were ones he helped gather, and once she's stopped fuming long enough to think it over she realizes she was likely too sensitive when he offered to show her how to work with her hands.

"He acts as if it's the only work with any value," she grumbles. Monty hums noncommittally.

She'd wandered out into the gardens to escape her arrogant husband who thought very little of the life she'd been raised to live and come upon Monty tending to the plants. She hadn't intended to start following him around, but he was friendly and engaged her in conversation and before she realized what she was doing, they'd made it to the end of one row and had started down the other side.

"Nathan thinks he feels guilty," Monty says slowly, as if he isn't sure he should share these opinions. "He's never employed people before, and he's certainly never employed people to do physical work he could do if he weren't expected to be indoors and stationary all day."

Clarke thinks of the stilted way he'd sat at the desk the night before, the way he stretched as if he were unused to being still for such a long period. She supposes he didn't have much of that in the Navy. She doesn't know much of his life before that, except that it didn't lend itself to idleness either.

"If he despises the work so much, why did he agree to Lord Marcus's offer?"

"I don't think he does despise the work," Monty says, holding his hand out for the clippers. Clarke passes them over. "His life changed very suddenly. Just because it changed for the better doesn't mean it isn't comforting to help with work that's more familiar." He levels his gaze, looking her over critically. "Why does it bother you what he does?"

"It doesn't." Monty gives her a look and Clarke scowls. "I swear it doesn't. I just wish he wouldn't act as if he were superior to me just because I've never worked with my hands."

Monty's expression changes from one of doubt to one on the brink of laughter.

"What is it?"

"Nothing." He purses his lips, struggling not to smile. "Would you like to try working with your hands?"

Clarke blinks in surprise, then looks across the gardens. There are an awful lot of rows left for Monty to face alone. "You would have to tell me what to do."

"No problem," he says easily. "I can show you."

The first thing they do is to find Clarke something she can kneel in that she doesn't mind dirtying. She mentions the trousers Raven had been wearing the day before and Monty agrees they can likely find some for Clarke as well. By the time they go indoors, the sun is high in the sky, her face flushed, her hair wild, and she knows she will get blisters on her fingers and palms. Still, she counts it a good morning.

Bellamy's tactic seems to be to avoid her until he can rein in his ire because, like the day before, he doesn't appear at lunch. When dinnertime comes, she makes Monty show her where he eats and ends up mostly listening to him and Gina and Raven tease each other while they share their meal.

She doesn't mean to echo the night before, but she hadn't realized one of the books she chose had a companion volume. Though she knows he'll be there this time, she makes herself go to the library anyway. As he pointed out, it's her home too, now. She won't let him run her out of any part of it.

As usual, Bellamy surprises her. She expected to find him bent over a ledger again, or writing a letter, or something along those lines. It's the sort of thing she always found her father doing when she would visit him in his study. Instead, she finds him wearing a pair of spectacles as he carefully works a needle through some cloth.

He looks up sharply when the door opens this time, offering her a nod.

"My lady."

"I told you, it's Clarke." She draws closer, her interest at war with her reluctance. "What are you doing?"

"Sewing." A smile tugs at his lips. She tries not to notice. "Have you never seen it done before? I was told it was an acceptable pastime for ladies, though my sister has no interest in it."

"I've never seen a Lord do it, possibly because it is an acceptable pastime for ladies."

His smile is indisputable now. "My mother was a seamstress. I had vague plans to take up tailoring when I left the Navy, but Lord Marcus made me a better offer."

"So when your trousers need mending, you do it yourself."

"Something like that." He clears his throat. "Why are you here? Not that you're not welcome, of course. I only thought four books might last you longer than a day."

"Maybe I intend to move the whole library to my rooms, bit by bit."

He laughs, surprised. "I hadn't considered that."

"And that's why I would have gotten away with it."

She finds the companion volume quickly, but rather than taking it back to her quarters she decides to settle into one of the chairs near his desk and begin looking through it. She can feel his eyes on her briefly, but she doesn't look up and he doesn't say anything, so he goes back to his work.

When he finishes, she leaves with him, and though she thinks she could remember the path back to her door she allows him to escort her nonetheless. When she wakes the next morning, someone has, as requested, left a pair of trousers for Clarke to wear.

As she pulls them on, it strikes her that the material is very similar to what Bellamy had been working with the night before.

* * *

It's hard to say how Bellamy feels about the routine he and Clarke settle into. Each day follows a similar pattern, the two of them arguing early in the day, retreating to separate corners of the estate, then coming together in the library in the evenings to exchange quiet and meaningless conversation before he walks her to her rooms and bids her goodnight.

It's the strangest courtship he's ever experienced, if it can even be described as such.

The day it all changes begins like the rest. He and Clarke are sniping at each other over breakfast, a continuation of the previous day's argument, when Nathan bursts in.

"Sorry to interrupt, but you're needed."

Bellamy is already standing. "What happened?"

"Bridge collapsed."

"Was anyone hurt?" Bellamy looks down, surprised to find that Clarke has moved with them, her trousers already tucked into a pair of work boots for the day.

"At least one cart went down with it."

"Get Lincoln and Raven," Bellamy says. "I'll ready the horses."

"And tell Gina to get some cloth for bandages," Clarke advises.

Nathan nods and peels off in the opposite direction but Clarke follows him out toward the stables.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm helping," she snaps, beginning to hook one of the mares up to the harness instead of a saddle. Bellamy stops her with a hand on her arm.

"We're not taking the cart."

"We'll need it."

"The trip will be faster without it."

"If there are injured, we'll need a way to carry them back to town. One that won't jostle them so much as riding horseback."

"And if there aren't any injured?"

"Then speed hardly matters."

They glare at each other for a moment and then Bellamy sighs, removing his hand from her arm and helping her finish readying the horses. He can see the corners of Clarke's lips twitch.

"Are you conceding?"

"We don't have time to argue." He looks at her out of the side of his eye. "I suppose you're coming along?"

She huffs, irritated. "I've studied some healing, I can help--"

"I wasn't protesting," he says mildly.

Her mouth snaps shut and she nods.

"Then yes, I'm coming."

Before long, Nathan has returned with Lincoln, Raven, and Octavia in tow. Bellamy can't say he's surprised that his sister has invited herself along with them. She loves any chance for adventure, any break from the ordinary.

"Oh good," Raven says, unburdening herself of the pile of rags she'd been carrying and climbing into the bed of the cart. "I wasn't looking forward to riding."

"Are you in pain today?" Clarke asks, climbing up beside her. Raven flashes him a look of amusement when his wife begins to prod at her leg, gently turning it this way and that.

"No more than usual."

"Good," Bellamy says, finishing hitching the horses and climbing up onto the bench. "We cannot afford to leave you behind for this one."

The others ride on ahead, Octavia taking Bellamy's horse with the same ease of assumption with which she used to treat his playthings. Bellamy urges the mares faster, hoping this isn't one of the days when they'll be difficult. To his relief, they break into a reluctant trot, the cart rattling along behind them.

"How far is it?" Asks Clarke, suddenly by his elbow. Bellamy startles and tightens his grip on the reins inadvertently, the mares slowing. His scowl as he gets them going again doesn't put her off. She climbs over the back of the bench, settling in close by his side on the narrow seat.

"Just beyond the bend in the river. Not where it's narrowest, but where it's most calm."

"And since I'm such a cartographer, that clears things right up for me."

"Nathan will arrive in a handful of minutes. I'd wager it will take us the better half of an hour."

"You could have gone ahead with them," she says after a pause. "I could have driven the cart."

"Can you?" Bellamy asks, surprised. "I hadn't thought that was part of a formal education."

"I consider it part of my informal one. When I was young, I took particular pleasure in finding ways to entertain myself that would displease my governesses." She pauses. "I enjoyed it when I was older too, only by then my mother had given up keeping a governess in her employ."

Bellamy snorts, an impolite sound, and Clarke narrows her eyes in offense.

"You don't believe me?"

"On the contrary. I have no trouble at all imagining it at all. I've often wondered how you became so adept at provoking reactions."

Clarke opens her mouth to retort but he flashes her a smile that he hopes conveys teasing, and she blinks, bewildered.

"Bait doesn't do any good without someone ready to bite," she says at last, and Bellamy laughs.

"Perhaps we're a better match than we thought."

For a moment there's nothing but the sound of horse's hooves and whining axles.

"I suppose I could have fared worse," she says at last. It rings with the same false protestation as Nathan's disguised affection, and that pleases Bellamy more than if she'd outright admitted she enjoyed his company.

"You're very lucky," he agrees teasingly.

Clarke nearly shoves him off the bench.

* * *

If Clarke had thought riding in the cart jarring to her bones, it's nothing compared to the rest of their day. Luckily the injuries are few, and though serious, not life-threatening. She recruits the man who had ridden to Bellamy for help-- John something, she thinks, though he glares every time she calls him by his Christian name-- to assist her in wrapping and bandaging while the others try to recover pieces of the bridge now strewn across the banks of the river.

"Here." Clarke looks up from the man she's tending to, surprised to see Bellamy standing over her with a bottle of spirits in hand.

"In case we feel like a drink?" John asks, voice slightly mocking.

"For sterilizing the wounds," she says, and Bellamy gives her a gruff nod. Her fingers brush his when she takes the bottle from him and it shouldn't make her blush but it does. Hopefully her face is already pink enough from exertion that her pale skin won't betray her. "Thank you."

Bellamy's glower softens. "Do you need anything else?"

"Some medicine might be nice."

He ducks his head, almost smiling. "The wreckage isn't exactly a market, but I'll see what I can do."

"I prefer a nice ale," John says. Bellamy's sour expression resurfaces.

"Keep your mouth shut and do as she tells you, Murphy, and I might have one set aside for you at the tavern."

John-- Murphy, Clarke supposes-- smirks. "I didn't think you were the type to take orders from your wife."

"I do when she knows better what to do," says Bellamy, at the same time that Clarke snaps, "Keeping your mouth shut doesn't come naturally to you, does it?"

Murphy looks between them and shakes his head. "I'll go bring Mbege some water."

"You do that," says Clarke. When she casts her gaze to Bellamy, rather than looking angrily after Murphy, he's looking smug down at her. "What?" She demands.

"Looks like you've got things handled," he says, smiling. "I'm not far if you need me."

"I know where you are."

"Good." He nods and passes behind her again, reaching down to squeeze her shoulder as he goes. Clarke watches him from the corner of her eye, trying to ignore the movement of his shoulders as he walks, then uncaps the bottle and sighs at the unconscious man by her feet. His head wound is something nasty, but she suspects the pain will rouse him.

"Get ready," she murmurs. "This is going to hurt."

By the time night falls, they've done all they can manage in one day's work. Raven has identified the problem that caused the collapse in the first place and has already begun preparing sturdier designs. Lincoln volunteers to cart the last of the wounded back to town, declining Octavia's offer of company.

"It'll be faster if I'm not worrying about taking you into such unsavory parts of town," he says at last, gentle but firm. "Besides, Raven will need someone to ride with her since we don't have her modified saddle. And you're better on a horse than your brother or Nathan."

"Maybe, but I'd like to see her try manning a ship," Nathan grumbles to Bellamy, who nods in agreement. Clarke hides a bemused cough, but not well enough. Her husband looks appraisingly at her.

"I suppose that leaves you with me," he says, tentative. As if he isn't sure she'll consent to riding with him.

She tries offering him a weary smile. "It could leave you with Nathan and me on my own."

"Bellamy wishes," Nathan grins, hoisting himself into the saddle.

"I'd worry too much that you'd fall asleep and off the horse," Bellamy tells her, leading the animal over by its bridle and steadying him as Clarke fits one foot into the stirrup. It's a bit higher than she's used to-- fitted to her husband's height, not to her own-- and she nearly doesn't make it, but Bellamy catches her with firm hands and sets her to rights. He releases her as soon as she's found her bearings, but in the next moment he's swung himself up behind her with practiced ease, warm and solid behind her, his arm wrapping firmly around her waist.

Clarke tries to resist the temptation to melt back into him but with the dusk has come a chill in the air, and there really isn't all that much room for the two of them anyway. She allows her muscles to relax ever so slightly. When Bellamy tightens his hold in response, she lets go the rest of the way, unwinding her stiff posture until her back is flush with his chest, his cheek brushing her hair.

It takes her a moment to recognize the tension in his frame.

"Is this alright?" She murmurs, quiet enough only he can hear. Up ahead, Nathan is laughing at something one of the women is saying. It feels almost as if they're offering a modicum of privacy.

Bellamy lets out a slow breath that warms her neck fleetingly.

"I'm only worried that I'm making you uncomfortable," he admits. Fondness swells inside of her, swift and a bit shocking in its intensity.

"Of course you are," she teases. "After a day of tending to the wounded and wearing myself out, it's certainly a horseback ride with my husband that will make me uncomfortable."

A beat passes.

"I joked earlier about luck," he says at last, softer and more serious than she expected. "I hope you know that I consider myself the lucky one. You were extraordinary today." He pauses. "You're extraordinary every day, but today in particular."

Clarke's breath catches in her chest. She turns her head and leans further back, letting him take her weight so that she can rest her head on his shoulder.

"I'm glad you're my husband."

As her eyes droop, she thinks she feels his lips brush her hairline, but she can't be certain. It may have only been the start of a lovely dream.

* * *

Bellamy is surprised the pounding of his heart doesn't wake Clarke as they make their way back to the manor. He'd known he liked her before today, had known he thought she could find a place with the ragtag family he'd assembled. He hadn't understood how much he admired her until he allowed himself to feel it today. He had no concept of the affection he reserved for her and her alone, a kind he never extended to anyone, not even Octavia.

Even if she'd not been half as capable or skilled as she was today, she'd never even hesitated in going where she was needed. In offering her opinion or her assistance. For the first time since he became a Lord, Bellamy had felt like he finally got his legs under him. His friends have been invaluable, but for the first time, Bellamy felt today as if he had a partner. Someone who felt as responsible for the care of his land and his people as he does.

It's more than he ever dared hope for.

He slows Apollo, dropping behind as far as possible while keeping Nathan and Raven and his sister in sight, so as not to wake Clarke. She's earned the rest, and if she wakes he's afraid he'd open his mouth and let every thought in his head spill out of it.

By the time they reach the stables, the others have already started for their beds, Jasper tending to the horses even though he's normally long asleep by now. His sister and Raven nod and smirk at him as they pass, whispering amongst themselves in a way that makes him suspicious.

Clarke stirs when he dismounts, rousing more when he scoops her into his arms.

"What--?"

He shushes her gently and adjusts his grip beneath her legs. "Go back to sleep."

Clarke clutches at his shoulders, not as if she's afraid he'll drop her but as if she wants to be closer.

"Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you to bed." His ears redden. "That's not to say--"

"To your bed, I hope," she mumbles. "Or you're welcome in mine."

He nearly trips, catching his footing just in time.

"I doubt you're up for any bedding tonight."

"I've heard it can be quite enjoyable." She sounds more awake by the moment, yet her grip never loosens. "And I plan to enjoy you at great length."

He swallows. "I look forward to it. But perhaps we should save it for a night when you can stay awake at great length."

They arrive at her door and he sets her on her feet. Unwillingly, she lets him go, lingering at the threshold and biting at her lip.

"Even if there's to be no bedding, I don't see why you'd want to keep me from your bed entirely," she says at last.

Bellamy smiles, though his heart still feels as if it's beating too hard, too fast.

"In all honesty, yours is much more spacious than mine."

She bites her lip. "I don't mind."

His wife might be too proud to beg, but this is as close as Bellamy thinks she may ever get and he doesn't want to discourage her efforts. He clears his throat.

"I don't have any nightgowns in my wardrobe, so you should collect what you want while we're here."

Clarke's responding smile is tired but relieved.

"I'll only be a moment."

When she reemerges, he offers her his arm and she ducks her head on a laugh.

"Such a gentleman."

"I try my best."

He turns his back as she undresses and uses the wash basin, wondering whether his usual sleeping attire is too informal. But when he turns around, she's wearing a soft, thin nightgown that masks very little of her curves, and he wonders if she might not care about propriety. Or if it even applies to husbands and wives in the first place. Or if it's possible to completely lose his wits in the span of a single second.

"Did you want to--"

"Oh." He clears his throat again. "Um, yes. Please."

She moves for the bed as he gives himself a quick once-over with the rag, just enough to get the grime of the day off. He's expecting her to have averted her eyes, but when he turns to find the loose pair of trousers he made to sleep in, he finds her trailing her gaze across him as if committing him to memory.

"Joining me?"

Bellamy shakes off his stupor and tugs on his sleeping clothes. "Only if you make some room."

She scoots obligingly to one side, though there isn't far for her to go. He douses the candle and then stares up at the dark, trying to figure out what to do with himself.

"Your bed really is the bigger of the two," he sighs at last. Clarke huffs and rolls into his side, wrapping an arm around his torso and pressing her head to his shoulder. If it weren't for the oddly still way she holds herself, Bellamy would think she had no qualms about it at all. He snakes his arm around her carefully, stroking his fingers through the ends of her hair until she relaxes, bit by bit.

"Seems alright to me," she replies, sleep sitting heavy in her voice. Bellamy kisses the crown of her head like he had earlier and she makes the same contented noise.

"I've certainly had worse."

* * *

Clarke isn't surprised to find that Bellamy has already awoken by the time she opens her eyes in the morning. The true surprise is that he's still beside her in the bed. He never lounges around doing nothing, especially not when there are morning chores he could appropriate.

Somehow her head made it into his lap, his fingers buried in her hair as he props open a book with his other hand. Her shirtless and sleep-rumpled and book-loving husband is the best thing she's ever woken up to. And certainly gives her the most indecent thoughts she's ever had first of the day.

And then a realization hits her.

"Hey!" She yanks the book from his hands, still clumsy with sleep, turning it right side up so she can see the cover. Bellamy smiles down at her, bemusement playing at his lips. "I've just finished the first volume and I couldn't find the second _anywhere_. Are you to tell me you've been hoarding it this entire time?"

"I haven't been hoarding it. I've been reading it."

"For weeks on end?"

"I don't have much time to read," he shrugs. "What, with all my duties and a troublemaking wife to see to--"

Clarke shoves the book back at him and he huffs, keeping his hand cradling her head as she adjusts so she can see him properly.

"I thought you would have gone already," she says. His smile softens. "Monty must be lonely."

"He'll get over it." His hand trails around to brush blonde strands out of her face, combing them into place with a light touch that she wants so much more of. Everywhere. "I couldn't find it in myself to begin the day just yet," he admits. "Not when being here was so enticing."

Clarke pushes herself up on one elbow, cupping her hand behind his neck to pull him down for a kiss. It's not elegant or even a very good kiss, off-center and sleep-stale and at an awkward angle, but from the way Bellamy is smiling when she lets him draw back, she'd think it was the best kiss history had ever seen.

He leans in and brushes his lips against hers again, slipping down the bed until she's resting against the pillows once more and he's on his side next to her. The kiss is languorous, slow and perfect, making Clarke's head spin and her lips feel bruised by the time he pulls back to place gentle kisses on her neck.

"What was it that charmed you, exactly?" He asks, nosing at the underside of her jaw until she tilts it for him. "So I can be sure to do it more."

"You have many charms," Clarke admits. "I, however, don't have it in me to be charming before breakfast. I had to use the other tools at my disposal."

"Feel free to use them anytime."

She pulls him up and kisses him again.

"You don't need to charm me. I'm already yours." She pauses. "And not just your wife, Bellamy."

He presses his forehead to hers and grins.

"Mine?"

She nods. "Yours."

He kisses her deeper, swallowing her sigh. "Don't sell yourself short, Clarke. That was pretty damn charming." And then, softer, "I'm yours too."

"Good." She tugs him closer, letting her hands settle on his bare skin. "I was hoping."

* * *

They can't lie in bed all day, of course. There's the bridge that needs tending to, as well as two days' worth of work around the manor, since it had been mostly neglected the day before. Bellamy is grateful to be able to shift some of that work to Clarke, settling her in next to Nathan in the library with the accounts book between them while Bellamy goes to town to gather a rebuilding party.

He's displeased to miss dinner, returning home much later than he would have liked anyway. Rather than the familiar path to his bed, to Clarke's rooms, or even to the kitchen, he finds his instincts steering him toward the library. Sure enough, he can see the lamplight flickering from down the hall, and when he comes inside, Clarke is curled up in a chair, a book open in her lap.

His heart feels as if it might burst. He sinks into the chair beside her, taking the hand that dangles off one arm of her chair and tipping his head back, closing his eyes.

"Too tired to ravish me?"

Bellamy's eyes pop open and he turns a slow grin on her. "Never. Just enjoying the peace, although you appear as if you'd prefer not to be disturbed."

"It is rather a good book." She traces the spine carefully. "You can ravish me after I finish this chapter."

"Take your time." He smiles and closes his eyes again. "This is nice too."

After all, she's his wife. They have all the time in the world.


End file.
